Depth Perception
by vcg73
Summary: Another little character study, of Kurt and Artie this time. And somehow Artie's dad got involved too.


Opening the door of his highly polished black truck, Kurt tossed his school bag inside but then paused in the act of climbing behind the wheel. Dropping back to the blacktop, he listened. He was sure that he had heard someone swearing. Not the chilling sound of swaggering jocks out trolling for geek-flesh, but the kind of fast, surprised interjection that usually that meant someone had hurt themselves.

The parking lot was all but empty, most of the McKinley students having left for the day. Kurt was here because he had spent an hour after school in the music room, practicing choreography with Brittany and Mike. While he considered himself to be one of New Directions' stronger singers, he still felt woefully awkward with some of the dance moves, so Kurt had struck a deal with Brit and Mike. He would help them to refine their at-times-shaky vocal technique in return for them teaching him some totally kick-ass steps. (Mike's term, not his.)

Eyes traveling over the few remaining cars, Kurt found what he was looking for. A blue minivan over in the handicapped space; its hood popped open. Artie's father.

Kurt shut and locked his door, jogging over to the ironically disabled handi-capable vehicle. "Mr. Abrams?" he called.

Artie's father popped into view from the back of the van, applying a band-aid to his right index finger. "Hello, Kurt. My engine overheated and I was stupid enough to touch it," he explained, sheepishly holding up his burned finger.

"Maybe I can help."

Pushing his glasses up higher on his sweating face, Mr. Abrams looked doubtful. "You know about cars?"

Kurt smiled, covering the flash of irritation he always felt when he got that question. Why did straight men always have to assume that gays and women could not possibly understand how to fix an engine, change a flat, or do anything else mechanically inclined?

"As a matter of fact, I do. My dad owns a garage and tire store, remember? I've been helping him out since I was little."

"Hey, Kurt," Artie greeted, wheeling his way around the van. "I didn't know you were still here, but I'm sure glad to see you."

Much happier with the relief in his friend's voice and the confidence it implied in his ability than with Mr. Abrams' still skeptical expression, Kurt came closer. "Let me take a look?" He held out his hand, accepting the flashlight that Artie's father mutely offered, and leaned in, careful not to get engine grease on his imported Christian Lacroix shirt. "Oh, here's your problem," he said after a brief inspection.

"What?" the two Abrams chimed together.

Gesturing the father closer with the flashlight, Kurt pointed to a crusty-looking deposit. "See this? Your pump-shaft wobbled loose and it looks like it's been seeping onto the impeller vanes." Getting nothing but blank looks in return, he smirked and clarified, "Your engine isn't getting any coolant. That's why it overheated. You need to have the impeller and hoses replaced. Probably the serpentine belt, too. It looks like it's starting to corrode. I definitely wouldn't drive this vehicle any distance until you have it fixed."

Mr. Abrams sighed deeply. "I knew I shouldn't have put off that last check-up." Glancing at Artie, he said, "Let's call a tow-truck and let your mom know we'll be home late. Guess I'd better let her know that we'll have to skip the theater tonight."

Kurt instantly perked up. "Theater?"

"Mom and Dad have season passes to the Lima Symphony," Artie explained, looking a little embarrassed. "My mom loves classical."

"She has good taste. I understand the Schubert and Mozart spring series is excellent this season, though I doubt it could be anything like last year when Melinda Kirkland was playing lead cello."

Artie made a face while his father simply looked astonished by the prissy-looking boy who could discuss engines and orchestras, practically in the same breath.

"I'd hate to let Mrs. Abrams miss the concert," Kurt told them. "Why don't you let me call my dad to send a truck for your van? You can always catch a cab for your evening out if it's too late to repair the damage tonight."

Before either of them could reply, he had whipped out his cell phone and proceeded to make the arrangement.

"Dad says to tell you that he'll call Pete Hinck at Jiffy-Towing right away. They do a lot of referral for each other and Mr. Hinck is really good. The truck should be here in less than twenty minutes," Kurt told them, closing his phone with a flourish. "In the meantime, maybe Artie can come over to hang out at my house for awhile. Or . . . I can just wait and give you both a ride to the garage."

Mr. Abrams stared at him for a long minute. Long enough that Kurt had to resist the urge to squirm. He and Artie had been close during their childhood, travelling to one another's houses for play-dates and dinner invitations on a regular basis, but those invitations had dropped off sharply after Kurt hit puberty and his personal preferences had started becoming obvious. Long before he, himself, had been brave enough to admit the truth. Kurt knew that Artie still considered him a close friend, but the other boy could be kind of innocent sometimes and Kurt had not wanted to cause friction between him and his uncomfortably conservative parents, so he had never tried to force the situation. Instead, he had quietly accepted that he and Artie could still be friends, but only within in the public forum of high school.

"Artie? You go ahead with Kurt if you'd like," Mr. Abrams decided, offering the stiffly postured teen a genuine smile. "This will probably take awhile."

Artie grinned, obviously aware of the silent byplay and approving of its conclusion. "That'd be great, Dad." Then, frowning a bit as he looked at Kurt, "You sure you can manage both me and the chair?"

"We'll be fine. I'm stronger than I look," he replied truthfully, then hesitated. "That is, if you won't feel weird about me picking you up."

The crippled boy laughed. "If any of the other football players had asked me that, I might. You, I trust."

Artie's father looked shocked. "Since when do you play football?"

"I don't. I mean, not any more," he replied with a casual shrug. "I was only on the team for a few weeks. Until the coach made us choose between singing and sports."

"He was the kicker, Dad. I told you."

Mr. Abrams frowned but did not dispute the claim. "Right. Well, then. Artie, I'll give you a call when I know something about the van."

"Cool," he said, exchanging a fist-bump with his father before wheeling his way over to Kurt's truck.

Kurt paused when Mr. Abrams said, "Take good care of him."

He nodded, recognizing the warning in his tone. Unsure whether the man was worried that Artie would be corrupted or dropped, he simply said, "I will."

Mr. Abrams held out his hand, surprising Kurt. "I appreciate all your help. You'll have to let us have you and your dad over for dinner some night, to say thanks."

"I'd like that," he replied, and meant it. Maybe changing the attitude of those around him really could be done one person at a time. It was nice to think so anyway.

Kurt could feel the father's eyes on him as he trotted back over to the truck and opened the passenger door. Bending to allow Artie to loop an arm around his neck, Kurt slid his arm underneath his friend's frail legs and lifted him easily into the seat with a little help from the running board.

As Artie buckled himself in, Kurt folded the wheelchair with the ease of much practice gained during the rehearsals for "Proud Mary" and stored it in the back of the truck.

"I'm not sure what my dad did with the ramp we built for your chair back when you used to stay overnight sometimes," he said, as he climbed into the driver's seat and started the engine. "We may have to go inside my house the hard way."

Artie laughed. "Remember when you first moved in there and you wanted to show off your new room in the basement? Your dad almost had a heart attack when he caught us bumping my wheelchair down all those steps."

Kurt chuckled at the memory. "I didn't even know he could yell that loud."

"Oh, hey! I had a new idea for a glee-club number today during math class. Want to help me section it out? It's got a killer hook and the original was a male duet, so I bet we could talk Mr. Shue into letting us try it out on the class together."

"A male-male lead? With you? I could get into that."

Artie laughed harder at his sly side-eye, and Kurt felt even better. Any other guy he knew would have tensed and got really uncomfortable with that kind of innuendo but Artie, his friend, knew that he was only joking.

He was surprised by how huge a feeling of relief that gave him. It wasn't easy to constantly feel that he'd put everyone on the defensive just by being himself.

"Thanks for agreeing to come over," he said, not quite sure how to tell Artie just how much he appreciated that easy acceptance, or if he should even try.

Artie nodded. "I was glad when you asked me. I've missed this. Lately it seems like you only do stuff with Mercedes." He shrugged one thin shoulder. "Thought maybe you didn't want to hang out anymore now that you've become sort of popular."

Astonished, he said, "And I thought _you _didn't want to hang out with _me _anymore, now that you know I'm gay."

A loud snort was Artie's answer. "Are you kidding? Kurt, I've known you were gay since we were eleven. It was kind of weird at first, watching my otherwise sensible best bud go all moony eyed over that kid with the braces and the lizard collection, but I didn't mind it."

"Richie Connors," Kurt said sheepishly, face burning at the reminder. "In hind-sight, a seriously embarrassing choice for a first crush."

The other boy laughed. "I'd have to agree with that."

"So, then, maybe you should come over again on Sunday," Kurt offered hopefully. "Finn's mom bought him a new drum kit for his birthday and I pulled my old electronic keyboard out of storage. We could really use a good guitar-player."

Artie's grin could have lit up the auditorium. "I'm in!"

Happiness settled over Kurt Hummel like a warm blanket as they chattered away, years and distance vanishing like the miles beneath Kurt's wheels as they drove. It felt like something had been healed that he had not even consciously realized was broken.

Glancing at Artie's face as he animatedly prattled about his duet idea, Kurt smiled; glad to further realize that he was not the only one who felt that way.

THE END


End file.
